


Sherlock's Words

by zerestor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deaf, Deaf Character, Gen, Kid Fic, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zerestor/pseuds/zerestor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft wishes it was as simple as 'Sherlock. Genuis.' Preferable to explaining why Sherlock was still wearing his pyjamas at 3pm, or why the butter dish was on the living room floor and the butter somewhere unmentionable. And infinitely preferable to telling yet another idiot that lipreading meant reading lips not back's of heads and that Deaf meant Deaf not stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Loves

Sherlock was a clever boy. Sherlock was in fact a genius. Written tests had varified that.

Of course people thought this meant he would excel at everything he did. Exceed all expectations at school. Create, invent, wow and amaze. Bedazzle even.

Sherlock was Deaf, but of course this wasn't what held him back.

Of course it was what the therapists, psychologists, teachers and case workers thought. But Mycroft knew better.

Deaf was what it was. Unfortunately the world was what it was too.

Sherlock was socially inept. Later he would tag himself as a high functioning sociopath. But as a child he was just ended up being strange, difficult and Deaf.

All those clever, immense thoughts whirling around inside. Mycroft sometimes thought that if Sherlock spoke, then people would realise that he was clever, and maybe even admire what he had to contribute. Of course he'd still be socially inept, rude, aggressive, unlikeable even.

Sherlock could, naturally speak English, perfectly well. But that's not how he chose to communicate, however simplier that would have made things. On one hand Mycroft wanted to be infuriated but on the other hand he could hardly fault his brother for choosing to communicate in his first language. Hardly fault Sherlock for wanting to communicate with the language where his receptive skills could match his productive. It was hardly Sherlock's fault that the rest of the world couldn't be bothered to learn. After all Mycroft had learnt.

So Sherlock became just a Deaf child, with the social complications that came from being Deaf. 'Sherlock's anger stems from a lack of communication skills.' 'Sherlock's aggression is rooted in confusion.' Wrong! Mycroft would whisper under his breath. They'd got it all wrong. Sherlock wasn't angry because he didn't understand. He was angry because the world didn't understand him. And Sherlock never did see the point in talking to, in communicating with those he deemed beneath him. Mummy and Daddy barely got a nod on some days.

So it was left to Mycroft alone to tug out ideas from Sherlock's giant, big, stubborn mind.

Explain Sherlock, explain. Write down your ideas. Mycroft bullied Sherlock into writing, into using a computer, into looking at his interpreter rather than ignoring her, into communicating with others. Showing how Sherlock could use what others gave him. Demonstrating to Sherlock the purpose and meaning in communicating. Impressing on him the unfair truth that Sherlock would need to give his world more than he could expect in return. Mycroft did what he could.

Perhaps it was these things that made Sherlock hate his brother. Or maybe it was the grateful look Sherlock could read in Mummy's gaze as Mycroft 'took care' of Sherlock when he was being difficult. Or maybe it was just what little brothers were meant to do. Or maybe it was just Sherlock. Sherlock versus Mycroft. Sherlock versus the world.

Things did not go well when Mycroft left for University.

Eventually Mycroft came back and took Sherlock with him. Mummy did her best to hide her relief as she hugged Sherlock against her to say goodbye, and kissed his cheek, but Sherlock saw it all. But for once he didn't tell her that. Mycroft remembers Mummy pushing Sherlock back. Her fingers insistently telling Sherlock to look at her. She jabbed the index finger of her right hand against her breastbone, before pressing her left hand against her chest, her right palm beating against it 'love', and then the name sign that she used for Sherlock – hands held close to her mouth - an S and a H, and the flick of her bunched fingers away from the corner of the month, the sign for beautiful. Sherlock beautiful. Finally she swiped her right thumb over her left thumb, again and again. Best. Best.

Mycroft had watched on, remembering all those past occasions as Sherlock grew up and Mummy would sign to Sherlock, over and over the same words and demands.

S H beautiful. S H beautiful. Look at Mummy. Look. Look. Copy. Copy. Sherlock Beautiful. S. H. Beautiful. Mummy loves Sherlock. Mummy loves. Mummy loves. Look Sherlock. Mummy loves Sherlock Beautiful. Best.

Sherlock would stare directly back at her. His level of upset indicated by how tightly his fingers gripped his hair. On an average day Sherlock would shake his head back and forth. On a bad day there would be wailing and Sherlock twisting tightly against Mummy as her hands curled around his wrists. On a good day, which was categorised as any day that Sherlock decided he would communicate with the world, in some way, Sherlock would sign back at Mummy. 'No. No. No beautiful. No beautiful. Mycroft best. Mycroft best.' His signs aggressive, angry, sad.

But as they all stood in the hallway of the family home, dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight valiantly trying to light the dark mahogany panelling on the dim corridor walls, Mycroft could remember specifically thinking Bad day. Bad day. According to Mummy there had been little else since Mycroft had left. Bad day. Bad day. And Mycroft summarised that Mummy was thinking the same thing as her hands reached carefully towards Sherlock. Then Sherlock 's fingers relaxed the death grip they had on his hair. Mummy's hands had halted in their movement toward him. And Mycroft's thoughts rapidly flicked to average day. Normal day. Average day. Normal day. As his brain rapidly categorised how everything since Sherlock refused to eat dinner last night until Sherlock threw all his clothes on the floor from his suitcase after Mommy's careful packing just half an hour ago was indicating that this was not a good day this was going to be a bad day. But his brain hiccupped as Sherlock, returning Mummy's stare carefully lifted his hands up to sign.

Sherlock loves Mummy. Loves. 

In his odd way, but entirely Sherlock way he finger spelt his first name quickly and precisely, and his sign for love was economical. But the intent was there.

And Mycroft's brain finally restarted as he processed this new side to his baby brother.

In return Mummy signed her love and her good byes to Mycroft. And let Sherlock see her tell Mycroft to look after his brother and work hard at his studies. And Sherlock had stared at her hands and her face almost as if it were all new. Mycroft summarised that Sherlock hadn't ever seen those words from his mother's hands, though she spoke the words regularly enough. Look after your brother. Look after him well. And no one said a word as Mycroft and Sherlock left the house.


	2. Does Sherlock like that?

Stalemate.

Mycroft picked the thrown book up off the floor. Checking the cover, Fundamentals of Chemistry,he turned towards his brother, one eyebrow raised.

'Really Sherlock, re-reading your old A-Level Chemistry textbooks again…..I thought always said you weren't one for sentiment….'

But Sherlock's eyes were now fixed on the ceiling and Mycroft's words were lost to the room. Sherlock's body language was relaxed as he lay back on the sofa. But Mycroft could see the lines of tension there, just under the surface.

So Mycroft took his time straightening out the book's cover before finding a space for it on the cluttered mantelpiece, propping it between a copy of Pear's Encyclopaedia 1997-1998 and a stained blue and white striped mug. Mycroft's fingers itched towards a small but by no means insubstantial pile of unopened letters, but he made do with unnecessarily straightening a collection of three business cards. He carefully drew each one forward with his right forefinger till they lined up with the edge of the mantelpiece. A cab company based in Walthamstow, an estates agent on Leyton High Road, and the third, a cream card with only a line drawing, in pale red ink of a cuckoo – mildly intrigued Mycroft flicked it over to read the reverse. Someone, a young man, probably had scrawled in blue biro a mobile number alongside the words text me. The word text was unlined. Mycroft flipped it back over and carefully pushed it into place, before turning back around to Sherlock.

Sherlock was the same as before, his fingers steepled together and resting on his lips, his eyes fixed at some unknown point on the ceiling. But Mycroft's eyes were drawn to Sherlock's bare feet. Mycroft watched as the toes flexed and straightened as Sherlock alternatively pushed the pads of his toes and then the heels of his feet against the fabric of the sofa.

Mycroft remembers a memory of a red faced 6 year old Sherlock on the floor of his nursery. Nanny had rushed off to get Mummy, leaving Mycroft standing listlessly by the nursery door. Mycroft had watched as his brother's small pudgy hands gripped and pulled at his hair, at the red rug on the floor, then at his stretched and twisted white tee-shirt which was bunched up around his armpits revealing a rounded pale tummy covered in red streaks where nails had dug in. Then Mummy had come rushing in. 'Oh hush, hush darling.' Falling gracefully to Sherlock's side she reached out grabbing at Sherlock's head, shoulders and then his arms. And that's when the noises started. Animal grunts of pain. Mummy's hands slid down over Sherlock's chest tugging and straightening the teeshirt, before sliding down over his twisting body trying to sooth until they reached his feet. And suddenly Sherlock stopped.

'Does Sherlock like that?' Mummy had crooned. 'Does Sherlock like Mummy squeezing his feet?'

Sherlock had stared down at Mummy his face red and blotchy and the forefinger and middle finger of his right hand planted firmly in his mouth as she spoke. Then as Mummy's hands had continued to rub and squeez his feet, Sherlock's eyes roved around the room till they found Mycroft.

Are you alright? Mycroft signed. Sherlock shook his right hand at his feet in a loose sign for pain.

'Now?' Mycroft queried in slight alarm. Sherlock shock his head and waved his hand over his shoulder. No. Before.

'His socks. His socks.' The Nanny had said, helplessly later. 'I just wanted him to put his socks on.'

Of course the next time he threw a fit, Sherlock kicked the nurse in the head when she tried grabbing his feet. He's not an idiot, Mycroft had wanted to shout, Ask him what hurts. Ask him what's wrong.

Now - in Sherlock's dingy flat, Mycroft had a sudden urge to reach towards Sherlock's feet. To grasp and squeeze and soothe. But of course he's not stupid, it wasn't the feet this time. There is the tell-tale sign of white finger tipped pushed tightly together so they won't betray Sherlock and reach up to tug at his ears.

Mycroft sighs and reaches down to tug at the bottom of his waistcoat.

'Too much.'

Mycroft looked up sharply at the sound of his brother's voice.

'What?' He speaks and waves his right forefinger at the same time.

'Too much. I need to think. And when I'm wearing them it's too much. Too much...' Sherlock ground to a frustrated halt. 'Sound.' He huffed out a breath. Wrong word thought Mycroft.

With another huff Sherlock reverted to sign. Mycroft let himself lose himself in the movement of Sherlock's hands. Jealous. Just for a moment.

Stop. Wait. Signed Mycroft, both hands outstretched.

Sherlock stopped.

I don't think you should wear your hearing aid all the time. Just when you need it.

Sherlock's hands were a flurry. Don't need. Emphatically. Don't need.

Stop. Wait. Stop. Mycroft's hands said again.

You choose. You choose, when you use it. When it helps. When it solves something for you.

Tapping a right index finger against his temple. Think.

Sherlock stared at him then huffed out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

His head flopped back against the sofa's armrest.

Mycroft took that as his cue to leave.

Goodbye Sherlock, he said to the room. Sherlock didn't look at him but raised one hand in an absent minded wave.

Mycroft carefully made his way downstairs, taking care to slam the front door as he left.

Upstairs Sherlock smiled, wriggled his toes and sighed.


	3. An Exact Science

And finally Sherlock had looked up at John. And John repeated his question. 

‘So you can lipread, right?’ 

John held Sherlock’s gaze. With a frustrated frown Sherlock thrust out his right hand, palm down, fingers splayed and waggled it from side to side, his lips pursed and shoulders slightly hunched. Ok. Alright. Ish.

‘You’re alright...’ John began. But Sherlock was now looking away from him staring down at his hand where he still held it in front of his chest, his gaze flicked back to John’s face, and his upper lip curled as he saw John had started speaking. 

John stuttered to a halt. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ He muttered, both hands outstretched towards Sherlock . 

‘Sorry. Right. Ok.’ 

Taking a slightly fortifying breath in he lowered himself carefully down onto the armchair, which was positioned opposite the sofa Sherlock lay stretched out on. He thumped the cushion behind his lower back and hooked his cane over the arm of the chair before looking up and meeting cool, grey eyes dead-on. 

‘Sorry. ‘ John repeated. Sherlock inclined his head slightly. Forgiven thought John. Then watching Sherlock’s face for a reaction he spoke his next words carefully, ‘You can lipread fine.’ 

Sherlock mouth opened and his hands started to come up. 

‘Right. Not fine.’ John amended quickly. ‘You can lipread as well, as anyone can lipread.’ 

A raised eyebrow.

‘Ok you can lipread better than most people. But lipreading isn’t easy...it’s not exact.'

Sherlock stared back impassively, though there was a faint crease between his eyebrows. John continued. 

'And signing is better, if the other person can sign....as well as you do?’

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. 

'And writing is.....ok?'

Sherlock responded with several quick and fluid. The meaning of each sign was lost on John but he translated it roughly as 'I prefer to text.' He snorted at that. 'You like to make me text you mean.' Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth across John's face and the crease between his eyebrows deepened. John clumsily mimicked back what he presumed was the sign for text, pointed at himself and rolled his eyes. 

'Soooo...' Continued John 'You and I are going to need to work this out. How you and I can communicate. How we can communicate better. Because we need that if we're going to be flatmates. So you need to help me with that Sherlock. Ok?' John's voice tapered off at the end and he hoped his meaning was understood.

Sherlock just stared back for a moment, then wet his lips, John almost thought he might speak. But instead all John got was a sniff and a twitch of the lips before Sherlock's gaze was once again tracing patterns on the ceiling. John decided this meant yes. 

‘Right.’ John said, taking to himself as he levered himself up, out of the chair with a grunt. ‘I’ll see you when you next need a text message sending.’ On his way pass he thumped the side of his sofa with his cane. 

‘One sugar John.’ Sherlock’s softly rounded voice called out. 

Lipreading wasn’t an exact science, but apparently the international thump for ‘I’m putting the kettle on. Fancy one?’ was well understood in 221B Baker Street.


	4. It's the Sounds

So they’d worked out the whole lip-reading thing. Well, John had worked out the whole lip-reading thing.  
  
Which still left the problem of Sherlock.

John had fairly quickly worked out that Sherlock’s lack of response to John at times (actually, no read _all of the bloody time Sherlock. You never listen_!...... _Can’t listen John. Deaf. Remember?...... You know what I bloody mean! Are you listening? For f…….that’s great. That’s just great.)_ wasn’t because John’s lips were actually any more difficult to read than any other person’s lips. No - Sherlock just didn’t like paying attention and could quite happily ignore most things including but not limited to Mrs Hudson’s freshly baked breakfast muffins, Mycroft’s text messages, traffic lights, the police, Do Not Enter signs and oh yes an ex-army surgeon standing right in front of his face.  And then lo and behold confusion reigned when he re-entered the world and seemed surprised that the world (or John or Mycroft or the traffic lights or Mrs Hudson’s breakfast muffins or _the police Sherlock!_ ) didn’t just pick up where Sherlock had left off, or, in the case of the buttered muffins hadn’t remained warm and toasty. John survived the former by pretending Sherlock had been ‘gone’ much longer than the actual 3 hours his brain had been switched off and John held out hope that one day Sherlock might actually fall for it and the latter, well let’s just say John maybe needed to cut back on the muffins or at least invest in some low-fat flora. For the most part Sherlock’s indignant self-absorbed anger at a world that did not and could not mould itself to his personal timetable was pretty amusing.

Then there were the other occasions – when John would watch as a word slipped under Sherlock’s Jedi-like radar – his head whipping around almost as if he could catch the word disappearing over his shoulder or when Sherlock missed a verbal cue or a sound that all the _hearing_ people in the room heard and computed without _even thinking_. A polite cough, a sarcastic bend to a particular word or even a knock at the door could all throw him off his stride. In these cases Sherlock turned in on himself. It didn’t matter, of course it didn’t. Everyone had their weaknesses and their struggles and to be fair Sherlock’s struggles were usually the fault of others. But it mattered to Sherlock. Sherlock who focussed his attention on these aspects of his life – observation, knowledge and deduction and wouldn’t allow anything other than perfection. John would watch as Sherlock’s hands gripped angrily, twisting his dark curly locks or whilst nails dug viciously into palms - knuckles strained white with the weight of imperfection. John carefully observed that the coping methods never went beyond the violence of little half-moon red lines dug into the underside of pale blue-veined forearms. Usually.

Lestrade had come over to ask for Sherlock’s advice with a case – nothing too complicated but ‘We’re just getting ourselves confused, turning in circles. Thought you could unpick it.’ Lestrade explained.

The case had involved a lot of names – people and places.  Husbands and wives, sisters and daughters. People with the same surnames and titles. And a father and brother with the same name and two street names that sounded virtually identical to John and presumably looked indistinguishable to Sherlock. Lestrade had rattled everything off reading out loud from his pocketbook – well used to Sherlock’s want and demand to absorb information as quickly as possible.

Except this time Sherlock (and John too) had quickly become confused. Sherlock all tangled and tense - had to ask several times for names to be repeated – frowning at Lestrade’s lips in frustration. Back-tracking when he realised that there were two brothers and a sister not just two brothers.  Eventually Lestrade had offered to write things down – to map it out for Sherlock. A perfectly reasonable suggestion of course. But Sherlock’s hands had already reached up into his hair, repetitively gripping, twisting, tugging and releasing -  after each repetition he shook his hair out violently as if the words might untangle themselves and tumble from between the dark strands. Twin spots of colour were high on his cheek bones and he rocked slightly  - back and forth on his feet– as if itching to pace but unable to quite move, his eyes fixed on Lestrade.

Lestrade was standing hand outstretched offering his pocketbook to Sherlock, the crease between his eyes even more prominent than usual.

And ‘NO.’ Sherlock said loud and clearly all of a sudden. And for a moment he was still, staring into Lestrade’s eyes, eyes fierce, body held defiantly. ‘No.’ He said again quietly. And then he was gone. John stood for a moment staring at the space Sherlock had just left, then up at Lestrade who just shrugged. John jolted into action as he heard the front door slam.

John clattered down the stairs after Sherlock and out into Baker Street. John caught sight of Sherlock just before he ducked into the narrow alleyway that led between number 37 and _McCullens & Sons Antiques_. John jogged down the street and stopped as he reached the head of the alleyway. Sherlock’s back was turned to John and he watched in growing alarm as Sherlock slammed the heel of his right hand into the side of his head – just above his temple - once, twice, three times. Hard. The hand clenched tightly in Sherlock’s hair and he yanked his hair tightly to one side, head and knees bent forward, his lanky frame forming an odd silhouette against the darkness of the alleyway. Just as John moved forward Sherlock let out a strange high pitched sound - half-grunt half-whine – it deepened and turned into a growl of frustration. A sound so unlike Sherlock that John just stopped. As abruptly as it started the sound stopped, and Sherlock’s hand fell from his hair and hung loosely at his side. Then Sherlock’s whole body just seemed to slump and crumple until he was crouched on the floor – hands pressed flat against the concrete of the alleyway floor. John saw rather than heard Sherlock take in two deep breaths and he seemed to rock slightly in his squat. John suddenly unsure of himself had retreated quickly back to the flat – uncertain of Sherlock’s reaction to John having witnessed this private moment.

Sherlock had arrived back at the flat 20 minutes after John. Lestrade had taken the time to write out the case in his pocketbook and John had put the kettle on. Both actions seemed to agree with Sherlock whose eyes had lit up with understanding as he read through the list of names – occassionally mouthing one, soundlessly as he sipped from his tea cup. Lestrade had gratefully accepted a cuppa – he looked even more wrung-out than usual and leant back in his chair watching Sherlock through half-lidded eyes. Lestrade finished his tea and reached across the table to nudge the edge of his pocketbook that Sherlock was currently hunched over. Lestrade signed a question at Sherlock as he glanced up from his study. ‘Any idea?’ He spoke whilst he signed and John knew Sherlock always complained that the DI’s sign was too English based (and his fingerspelling poor, at best). John had no idea if Lestrade had learnt sign for or perhaps from Sherlock – though he couldn’t picture Sherlock having the patience to teach anyone anything,  or if perhaps Lestrade had a Deaf family member or friend.

‘Maybe. I need more time.’ John could read that – just from the facial expressions.

‘Ok – fine. Good. Thanks. Text me when you get anything.’ Lestrade ripped a handful of pages from his pocket book, handed them to Sherlock and stood up to take his mug over to the sink.

After thanking John verbally Lestrade clapped a hand on Sherlok’s shoulder as he took his leave – and Sherlock had deigned to look up at Lestrade and waved a ‘No problem’ at him. John would say he was proud – if that hadn’t been an entirely patronising attitude to have. As it was Sherlock had been quick to look up at John and scan his face, nose wrinkled up – checking John’s reaction. John had just smiled and taken a sip of his tea. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion and the he shook his head as if to banish the thought and turned back to Lestrade’s notes.

John had already been thinking it really but after that event John thought there was something else, something else _wrong_ – not that Deaf was wrong. But there was something else in play. Just as it wasn’t all about being Deaf John wasn’t sure it was all about being a Genius either.

Later Sherlock tapped his finger down the long list of names involved in the case – making John say each one out loud – whilst he squinted at John’s lips.

‘It’s not you. It’s the sounds.’ Said John in mild exasperation. And Sherlock carefully nodded at him. 


	5. To See the Ducks

It was a Thursday morning that John found out Sherlock worked with interpreters. That’s multiple people with the ability to interpret Sherlock.

Good news for communication.

John had stayed up late the night before watching a DVD box set. Sherlock had turned in early, or had at least headed into his room at the strangely, for him, reasonable hour of 10pm. John quickly seeing the advantage of the empty living room had opened up a DVD box-set that he had been meaning to watch. There had become a quiet joy for John in watching something without having the murderer revealed to him before the first character had finished their opening monologue. A simple pleasure in watching without having a grown man screaming at the TV, literally screaming at the TV that the plot conclusion _‘Doesn’t make sense!_ ’ because for all Sherlock’s silences he seemed to take perverse pleasure in reminding John, Mrs Hudson and the rest of the street that he had fully functioning vocal chords. John would catch him rubbing his neck after such a screaming session almost in apology to his own body. So having both the living room and the TV to himself had had John cracking open the milk chocolate hobnobs from his back up secret stash (the original secret stash having become mysteriously depleted), making a cup of tea and settling in for at least three more episodes of _The Killing_ than he had intended. Crawling into bed at 3am, a cold and empty bed with not even a hangover for his troubles had only been, moderately depressing.

So it happened that John had found himself wandering downstairs late one Thursday morning to find a stranger in the living room. The stranger, a woman was over by the window, staring down at the street below –half leaning-half sitting with one hip propped up on the window sill.

John had lived with Sherlock long enough not to be shocked by unannounced visitors in the flat but not quite long enough to hide the surprise from his voice.

‘Oh! Hello?’

The woman gave a start and whipped her head around towards John. ‘Hello!’ She said cheerfully. She pulled away from her perch by the window and strode forward her right hand outstretched towards John.

‘I’m Emily.’ She said and grinned at him. John briefly shook her hand and offered his name in return.

 ‘Sherlock’s flatmate right?’ She replied, still smiling. John nodded warily. Sherlock’s clients weren’t usually quite so chipper. The woman was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with glossy dark brown hair pulled tightly back into a pony tail. She was dressed in smart black trousers, and wore a dark green mac tied at the waist; the colour must have been a deliberate choice as it drew attention to her sharp green eyes. She was pretty and John suddenly became acutely aware of his un-tucked shirt, stubble, bed hair and very potential morning breath. The stranger, the woman, _Emily_ continued to smile at him, but didn’t offer anything further.

John smiled at her and raised his eyebrows in a short ‘so then’ shrug. Emily raised her eyebrows in return and continued to smile, thrusting her hands into her mac pockets. John smiled back. Emily smiled back. John glanced around the living room, looking for clues – maybe in the form of a 6ft madman. Emily followed his gaze around the room. John thrust his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and resisted the urge to check his flies were done up. Their eyes met again. John smiled and nodded. Emily smiled back. Emily looked down at her shoes, John followed her gaze – black, polished, professional shoes. John looked down at his own feet, wincing when he saw his bare, naked and hairy toes.

John broke first.

‘Sorry. Look. Are you here to see Sherlock?’

Emily pulled her hands out of her mac and looked at John in surprise. ‘Oh…’

But she was interrupted by the slam of a door and Sherlock bounding down the short hallway that led from his bedroom to the living room. Sherlock entered wrapping a dark blue scarf around his neck. John had opened his mouth to tell Sherlock that he had a client but snapped it shut and scratched nervously as the back of his head as Sherlock’s gaze had already alighted on Emily. Without a glance at John he had pushed past his flatmate and stopped in front of Emily so they stood toe-to-toe (or rather shoe to shoe, John resisted the urge to cover one foot with the other).  They stared at each other as Sherlock finished with his scarf. Then, to John’s slight alarm Sherlock reached out and promptly grabbed Emily by the upper arms.  He yanked her upwards so that she had to rise up onto the balls of her feet to maintain balance. Sherlock pushed her back slightly so that she was at arms-length and ran his eyes up and down her – in a calculating manner – that made John feel slightly uncomfortable. Sherlock was never one for personal space but this was a bit much.

John had been all for _un_ -manhandling the situation, but then Emily had said.

‘New shoes. Green coat that make my eyes pop! Thinking about getting a cat.’  
  
Sherlock had winced slightly at that last one, and released her left arm so he could hold up two fingers of his right hand. _Two out of three?_ And then she had grinned up at him and said deliberately ‘I used a clothes brush and changed before I came.’ And Sherlock had said quite seriously in his softly rounded but deep voice ‘Oh. I’m keeping you.’

And John was reminded, in a way of his first meeting with Sherlock and also strangely of Irene Adler but without quite the same level of unresolved sexual tension, without the riding crop and with more clothes. All of those things related to meeting Irene Alder not to John’s first meeting with Sherlock. Although that had involved a riding crop. _Christ._ John blinked rapidly.

‘Er. Hello? We’re keeping what now?’ John said as Sherlock released Emily so that she rocked back slightly on her heels.

Sherlock turned as if only just noticing John was there and threw some signs at him.                               

‘Oh good you’ve both met.’ John glanced over at Emily as she spoke.

‘Interpreter. I’m his interpreter.’ Explained Emily her hands pointed at Sherlock and made the sign for interpreter, briefly. Sherlock had frowned at them both at that, and then made a few quick signs, indicating at first Emily, then John. ‘John I’m disappointed – have you two just been standing here smiling inanely at at each other this whole time!’ Emily interpreted smoothly. Sherlock pulled a look with his face and then turned his back on them both and headed into the kitchen.

Sherlock was busily yanking open cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, and  John felt slightly blindsided. He knew that Deaf people often worked with interpreters, but he assumed that Sherlock didn’t. It would seem the kind of thing that Sherlock would shun, that kind of _support_. John watched as Sherlock slammed a drawer shut and frowned at it before spinning around and heading back down the corridor to his bedroom – because logic dictated that if you can’t find what you want in the cutlery drawer – then it’s probably in your bedside table. _Well it would be in this flat_ thought John.

John turned back to Emily, who was frowning slightly.

‘Sorry.’ John apologised. ‘I didn’t know Sherlock had an interpreter.’

Emily shrugged off his apology and her eyes lit up slightly as she asked ‘So what do you think he’s looking for?’

John’s initial guess of keys was waved off by Emily who guessed gloves. Soon they were both chuckling as their suggestions moved from the vaguely practical but hardly sublime to the clearly ridiculous. John was particularly proud of his back-up scarf suggestion. When Emily responded with portable forensic lab John had been compelled to ask ‘Just how long have you been working with him?’  
  
John had frowned at her answer of six months.

 ‘Every Thursday since May. And other odd days. Though recently its’ been a lot more often. And mainly not Thursdays. Mainly odd days in fact. In fact we may have mainly not ever done Thursdays…..’ She trailed off. John could already picture a manic Sherlock hauling his interpreter out of bed at random hours of the morning to interpret at a murder scene or to interrogate the husband or wife of a suspect. He always thought that Sherlock took _John_ to murder scenes. John glumly concluded that something has gone wrong somewhere in his life if he’d started sulking about not being invited to a murder scene. And then Emily had explained that she wasn’t the only interpreter that worked with Sherlock currently, and that she presumed he’d worked with interpreters before her, before May and John had felt oddly wrong-footed that he didn’t know this thing about his flatmate. All these _people_ that Sherlock knew.

It seemed that today was actually the first time that Emily had met with Sherlock at the flat. ( _He told me to make myself comfortable and not to look in the fridge.)_ John apologised for the state of the flat, and the skull, and the lab equipment strewn across the kitchen table and for whatever was lurking in the fridge. Emily told him there was no need to apologise that she was sure most of the mess was Sherlock, she'd looked in the fridge already ( _I'm pretending it was a bowl of gone off pickled onions.)_ andshe’d already become acquainted with the skull. ( _It’s quite a complicated story, it involved a tricky situation with a security guard at the British Museum)._ Say no more John had said and they’d laughed. 

Sherlock suddenly reappeared in the living room this time shrugging his coat over his shoulders. His eyes flitted back and forth between them as their laughter died off, uncomfortable, as he always seemed with other people’s mirth. Sherlock paused, his eyes quickly taking in John’s dishevelled appearance, then he smirked and shook his head signing at John, his fingers wriggling towards John’s feet.

‘You really should wear socks if you’re worried about your toes. Though Emily has seen much worse.’ As Emily interpreted a faint blush appeared on her cheeks. John didn’t want to imagine what that blush meant, considering he lived with Sherlock and had had several conversations about the meaning of closed doors, and two rather fraught and red-faced conversations about the particular meaning of a closed and locked bathroom door.

 Sherlock who was fully dressed, thank god – John had seen quite enough of Sherlock to last a lifetime was hunched over his desk shoving aside piles of paper and other detritus, in search for his wallet, apparently as he triumphantly plucked it from under a pile of lined note books, which slid gracefully to the floor one after another. John didn’t bother to analyse why the desk ranked second to the salad drawer as a potential lost wallet location. Sherlock waved off Emily’s attempts to help tidy up, and John suspected that Sherlock only scooped up the pile of notebooks and dumped them back on the desk to stop Emily from doing it. Interesting.

‘So where are you off to today, Sherlock?’ Asked John ducking down to catch Sherlock’s eye as Sherlock was tucking his wallet into his inside jacket pocket. Sherlock’s answer was to flap a hand at Emily. 

 ‘To the bank today I think.’ She waved at Sherlock. ‘Bank? Right?’ She queried and Sherlock nodded sharply. ‘Somewhere on the other side of Regents Park.’

Of course Sherlock would have a bank next to Regents Park, John thought slightly morosely of his own NatWest bank card.

‘I’m trying to persuade Sherlock to walk through Regents Park, not get a taxi.’

Sherlock threw his hands up at her. ‘Boring. Parks are boring!’

‘Regents Park is beautiful. And it has ducks!’

Sherlock mimicked back the sign for ducks childishly.

Emily just stared patiently back. As John said ‘Sherlock!’

‘You don’t want to take a taxi because you get travel sick.’ Sherlock accused Emily, ignoring John’s frown.

Emily rolled her eyes, and the conversation went private for half a minute. John recognised the sign  for taxi. There was obviously some debate. Then finally Sherlock turned abruptly without a word or a sign to John and thumped down the stairs.

‘We’re walking through the park.’ Emily told John smugly. ‘Sherlock says goodbye.’

Sherlock banged on the banisters and his voice called up. ‘I do not say goodbye!’

Emily rolled her eyes again. ‘Bloody mind-reader.’ She said and her hands fluttered around her head.

‘Not a mind-reader!’ Yelled Sherlock. ‘You’re predictable!’

Emily glanced with frustration around the living room, looking for something.

‘What can I do?’ She said to John.

‘What?’

‘Something Sherlock wouldn’t predict.’

Her eyes alighted on John and there’s a Sherlockian mania to them that had John taking a step back. Suddenly Emily has both of his arms gripped in her hands mirroring how Sherlock had grasped her earlier, and John had about half a second to contemplate the implications of the relief he felt at the fact that he’s more or less at eye-level with Emily before she had landed a big wet kiss on John’s lips. The kiss lasted for only a brief moment – short enough for John not to react but long enough for him to start wondering. Emily pulled back with an exaggerated ‘Mwah’ sound.  

‘Sorry.’ She said sheepishly, releasing his arms.  

John just stared at her and Emily grinned wolfishly at him as Sherlock yelled up the stairs again;

 ‘What are you doing? You usually dance. You always dance! You’re always predictable.’

John didn’t think he’d heard Sherlock’s voice so much in one week, leave alone one day.

‘I usually can’t think of anything less predictable to do than dance.’ Emily said as if that explained anything.

‘Nice to meet you John.’ And she shook his hand, and then she was off down the stairs after Sherlock. John wandered over to the window, absent mindlessly trying not to press his fingers against his lips. He watched as Sherlock and Emily walked down the street. Sherlock’s  hands and arms practically yelling as he walked backwards in front of Emily, unable to stop his chain of thought for something as boring as _walking_. John looked on faintly amused as Emily reached out and grabbed Sherlock to guide him to the left of a lamppost he was about to walk into.

Six months he’d been living with Sherlock. Six months of using basic sign skills (‘Military sign language is not the same as BSL _John_.’  ‘Yeah but it’s similar.’ ‘I refuse to get into column formation on principal John!’ ‘Right. Not so similar.’). Three months of scribbling on bits of paper and three months of having his grammar corrected by Sherlock, _before_ he answered the question. Three months of badly performed mime (on John’s part of course ‘Sign language is not _mime_.’ Sherlock had sneered. And John had said ‘Yeah. But it is, a little bit when you think about it.’ Just to see the look on Sherlock’s face.). And all along the sneaky bastard was meeting downstairs in Speedy’s with not only a sign interpreter but someone who persuaded him to walk through the park to see the ducks. Someone pretty with a penchant for Sherlock-style surprise. John sighed. Was it bad form to ask out your flat mate’s interpreter? He turned away from the window and caught sight of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Flies undone.

Probably best leave it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies - not wonderfully proofed (let me know any typos or anything that doesn't make sense!)  
> Wanted to get it out....zx


	6. Got into the Butterdish

Sherlock claimed to have deleted his childhood. _I don’t see how else I would have survived a childhood with you,_ he would say. This was for Mycroft both a regular and a tedious argument, and he would, in turn suggest that Sherlock’s lack of memory was due to the fact that he wasn’t raised within the Holmes household and was in fact _raised by wolves_. And Sherlock would say that he would have preferred that. _You’ve been stating that since you were 8 Sherlock,_ was Mycroft’s reply. And Sherlock, who did have an eidetic memory, could either give the game up and correct Mycroft, _I was actually 7 years, 6 months and 2 days old when I first said that!_ , or fume silently and maintain his claims that he remembered nothing of his childhood. Mycroft suspected that Sherlock’s childhood memories were actually a confusion and jumble of memories and emotions, which Sherlock dealt with by detaching. So he allowed him the lie either way.

When Mycroft went to University, he’d had a week of sharing his first year dorm room with a 12 year old Sherlock. Since Mycroft had left to go to University the situation at home had become so untenable for everyone involved that he had had little choice other than to pluck Sherlock out of it and haul him back to Cambridge, and with no time to organise anything else Mycroft had found himself for the first time in 10 years _sharing_ a room. Sherlock spent the first few days in something of a daze. The shock of a new environment seeming to numb him, and prevent him from the spiral of tantrums that such disturbances normally caused. Sherlock would solemnly watch as Mycroft gathered his things together in the morning, staring down at the plate of toast or bowl of cereal that Mycroft brought up to him from the dining rooms, Mycroft would leave him what he could for entertainment and leave the door unlocked (the halls porters had been bribed to keep an eye out for any escape attempts) and as he hurried off to lectures he would feel Sherlock's cat-like eyes following him. On the third morning Mycroft woke to find Sherlock staring out of the dorm room's little window. He was kneeling on a chair and was resting his chin on his crossed forearms. Mycroft leant out of bed and flicked the bedside lamp on and off twice, and Sherlock looked over at him, raising his head from his arms.

 _Who?_ Sherlock whirled his right forefinger around lazily.

'What?' Said Mycroft outloud, not bothering to sign instead rubbing his hand across his eyes. He blinked hard several times and then refocused on Sherlock, who was staring expectedly at him.

 _What?_ Repeated Mycroft, this time waving his right forefinger in the appropriate sign. Sherlock looked satisfied at the sign, and he repeated, _Who?_ And this time gestured out the window. _Who? Are they?_   Sherlock looked expectedly at Mycroft.   
  
With a sigh Mycroft flung back the duvet, not before discreetly adjusting his pyjama bottoms, there were some things that were really difficult about sharing your room with your 12 yr old brother. The window was small and Mycroft had to rest his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder in order to look outside. Sherlock’s hair tickled his cheek and he smelt of unwashed boy, though he still had that familiar sweet smell that Mycroft recognised from when Sherlock was a baby. Mycroft had worked it out, as a child himself that it was the powder Nanny used on Sherlock’s clothes, not really a special Sherlock smell. Not really. Mycroft pushed his nose slightly into Sherlock’s curls, causing Sherlock to fidget. From this angle Mycroft could see that the quadrangle below was filled with students, many of them dressed in tracksuits or gym clothes, either back from or heading to practice, others were clutching books or bags to their chests, heads down against the brisk October wind as they headed off to the library or early labs.

Sherlock’s insistent hands pulled Mycroft back from the window.

 _Students. They’re all students._ Mycroft explained. Sherlock frowned.

 _What? Why? Where go?_  Sherlock’s hands flew through the questions, as he leaned back out the window. Mycroft pulled him back.

_They’re students. They’re all here to learn. Like me._

_You! Learn what?_  Sherlock peered at his brother.

 _Classics_. Mycroft fingerspells the word, unsure of Sherlock’s familiarity with the word. Sherlock had been particularly detached from everything since the moment Mycroft had started the application process for University.

 _Ancient history. Greek. Latin. Romans._ Mycroft tries to explain. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and he turns to look out the window again for a moment. He turns back to Mycroft.

 _Are they learning Classics?_   He fingers spells, but Mycroft suspects he’ll have a sign for it by the end of the day.

Mycroft regards his brother for a moment. Then tells him _Get dressed._ And repeats it with an explanation when Sherlock doesn’t move, _Get dressed and I’ll show you what they do._  
  
A beat and then Sherlock scrambled down off the chair, tripped over his trainers that were lying strewn on the floor where he had kicked them off the night before and fell flat on his face, clipping the edge of Mycroft's desk with a yelp.  
  
40 minutes later Sherlock and Mycroft are down in the quadrangle, they are perched on a bench in a stone alcove, with a good view across the pathways and the grass. Mycroft’s legs are outstretched and crossed at the ankle, whereas Sherlock’s toes only just reach the ground. Just. Sherlock's hair is almost dried into standard birds nest formation. The red mark on his forehead from where he hit the edge of Mycroft's desk earlier has almost faded.

For the past 20 minutes Sherlock has been pointing at students and Mycroft has been deducing what subject they are studying from their clothes and appearance. Sherlock has been very excited by this. A few glances have been thrown their way, but it is not even 9am on a Monday morning and most people’s attention are on lectures, unfinished coursework and how their weekend activities are going to impact on this week’s educational and social goals.

Sherlock eagerly points at a student as they stalk confidently across the quad. A tall boy with close cropped blonde hair. Mycroft doesn’t pause. _Rower. Easy. Badge on their bag_. Sherlock makes the sign for rower, before thrusting another eager finger at a rather thin young man wearing a bottle green cardigan. _Mathematic student. Chalk on his sleeves from working out equations on the blackboard._ Sherlock actually cackles at this and tugs at his own jumper sleeves. Next he points out a young ginger haired girl walking hurriedly across the pathway directly towards them. Mycroft nudges down Sherlock’s finger in case she looks up and Sherlock twists to see what Mycroft will say next.

 _Second year philosophy student, thinking of changing to history. Prefers to take notes in pencil rather than pen. Grew up in Winchester._  Sherlock narrows his eyes at this level of detail and then sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry. He drags the extended thumb of his right hand down his cheek. _Lie_. Mycroft laughs and admits _I met her the other week in a lecture_. Sherlock smiles at Mycroft and presses in tight against his side.

Having Sherlock so close by during this time at University was both a memory of exasperations ( _You can’t come to lectures. I can’t get you a human eyeball from the biology lab. Please, just don’t touch that! Sherlock!)_  and a memory of fondness where, for a short time Mycroft could be and was everything Sherlock needed. Shortly after Sherlock’s arrival Mycroft had to move out of halls and find a private house, it was not looked on well by the University for a first year student to be living outside of halls and Mycroft had to rather distastefully appeal to a tutor for help. The man had a sickening soft spot for a student having to look after his troubled disabled brother. Troubled, yes. Disabled ? Mycroft could never quite square that word with his brother. At least not in the way people often meant it. Mycroft was most relieved that his back-up plan, which involved his ancient Greek lecturer and a bit of dirt Mycroft had on him was not needed.

Nanny came, and a string of tutors and Sherlock was contained. Happy and contained. Mycroft can remember a 12 year old Sherlock, long legged but still with enough pudge to soften his edges sat on Mycroft’s bed making up signs, for all the new vocabulary Mycroft brought back from lectures. _So we can discuss things properly._

Then came Carl Powers. Then came Sherlock at University; a different University, in a different city. And then came Sherlock’s first fall; rehab taught Sherlock how to hide and started to stir into life a hate for his brother, which simmered over the next few years as Sherlock stumbled through his degree.

Whatever he did the University always took him back– how could they not? – he was brilliant, and he had Mycroft Holmes for a brother. Mycroft knew that Sherlock didn’t really understand the point of University. In attempt to keep abreast of Sherlock developments Mycroft was sent reports by his various contacts he had made in Cambridge. The reports which ranged from the mildly intriguing: _Sherlock bought two balls of twine, a copy of good housekeeping and some beeswax, again today._ To the exasperating: _Sherlock fell asleep in philosophy lecture, again._ Past the alarming: _Sherlock has not been back to his halls for three days._ To the frankly confusing _: Sherlock has joined the University orchestra. 15 th desk violin - _Sherlock didn’t own a violin. Sherlock couldn’t play the violin. Ah yes the orchestra. It seemed Sherlock had got himself a violin and was busy sawing away at it on the 15th desk: _I don’t know Sir. No-one seems that concerned._ Later investigations revealed that Sherlock had turned up to the auditions – deduced somehow the players that were likely to get in and targeted someone who was only of moderate playing ability, so likely to not be placed on a high desk in the section and seemingly not well connected within the music community, so not likely to be missed, and somehow intercepted the confirmation of their place in the orchestra. _God knows how. Everyone had email and mobile phones these days,_ _Mycroft has thought_ _._ And turned up to the first audition posing as this person – complete with violin and music stand. It didn’t, of course escape Mycroft’s notice the potential link between this and Mycroft’s own prowess on the piano.  Mycroft emailed Sherlock a link to an Oxford music graduate from the 1970s who was profoundly Deaf. Sherlock didn’t reply and shortly afterwards quit the orchestra, his place taken up by its intended owner. _Pity he was getting quite good._ Said one of Mycroft’s contacts. Mycroft had stared him down somewhat incredulously, and the boy just shrugged. _It’s the truth._

University went in fits and starts driven by Sherlock’s alternating obsessive focus, and languid disinterest. The later not helped by poorly prepared lecturers and interpreters. He passed, by chance Mycroft thinks privately– as the exams fell on days that Sherlock decided to turn up and participate. His dissertation remained a mystery to Mycroft – he suspected a slightly starry eyed supervisor may have been involved. _Bit not good_ as John Watson would say, later.

Third time out of rehab and Sherlock is sleeping in Mycroft’s guest bedroom in his flat that overlooks Hyde Park. He’s sleeping fitfully in the final stages of withdrawal. Mycroft has to stop himself from cheeking on him every 10 minutes. Well Sherlock put a stop to that with a well-aimed slipper. For the first week Sherlock sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. He wakes up to slurp down enormous bowls of cornflakes with ice cold semi-skimmed milk, and to balefully take his medication under Mycroft’s watchful eye – still half asleep.

The second week and he’s roaming through the apartment no care for Mycroft’s privacy. ‘What if I went through your stuff?’ Mycroft asks him once, out of genuine curiosity. Sherlock just stared at him. Mycroft’s baby brother never was one for modesty. Mycroft spends a moment wistfully imagining playing 'deductions' with Sherlock, them both staring out of the window at the park visitors.

The third week and Sherlock is visibily itching for action. This is where the butter dish comes in.

Mycroft likes his butter dish. He likes having a container just for the butter. He knows it is fairly superfluous to requirements and that he could equally leave the butter in its sleeve, or on a plate or in a Tupperware box. The thought of Tupperware does something bad to Mycroft, something about the texture. No a butter dish just is. Every morning, when he’s at home the butter dish is there on the centre of the table next to the toast rack (another happy thought) and a jar of jam. That is where the butter dish belongs. And if it is not breakfast, and Mycroft is not sitting at the dining room table to have breakfast then it belongs in the fridge – second shelf down. So Mycroft is not expecting to lead his guests into the living room and see the butter dish sitting in the middle of the floor. It’s too late he’s welcomed his guests in, a minor but nevertheless important government Minister and his aide, sent them into the room ahead of himself – holding the door open – currently all genially smiles and ‘Oh no I do insist.’ And they all just stop and stare at the butter dish. The rest of the living is perfectly intact, which just makes the butter dish even more incongruous. Mycroft’s mind goes blank for half a second and then blares _Sherlock!_

‘There’s a butter dish on your floor.’  Says the Minister. ‘ Did you know?’

His aide walks forward and bends down. ‘It’s empty.’ He says lifting the lid off.

Feeling that maybe an explanation of giddy exclamation of ‘Goodness! Who left that there. New maid. A bit eccentric.’, could perhaps smooth things over Mycroft opens his mouth. Then Sherlock appears at Mycroft’s shoulder silently – like a big _idiotic_ shadow. Mycroft barely hides a flinch and closes his eyes just for one moment.

‘What are you looking at?’ He demands and, not bothering to look at Mycroft for a response he shoulders past his brother, only to abruptly stop as he sees the Minister and his Aide. A look of confusion or annoyance is on Sherlock’s face, and Mycroft watches as Sherlock’s fingers curl and uncurl by his sides.    
  
Mycroft is briefly calculating how Sherlock may have saved the day and is just planning a round of handshakes and introductions ( _please be in that sort of mood Sherlock!)_ before a tactful retreat to the dining room when he suddenly realises that Sherlock is still wearing his pyjamas. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows and his hands and forearms are smeared in what is most likely butter. Mycroft meets the eye of the aide who is smirking. _Christ._ Then his brother’s blank face. The silence is broken by the sound of the Minister chuckling.

‘Got into the butter did you?’ Says the Minister jovially, clapping a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock jumps.

‘Sorry – didn’t mean to scare him.’ The Minister says to Mycroft in a voice that makes Mycroft wince internally. Mycroft watches a full body shudder go through Sherlock as he shrugs off the Minster’s hand. Sherlock moves more fully into the room so that he has everyone in his sightlines. He glances over at the aide and seems to quickly dismiss him as unimportant – much as Mycroft has done, although it always pays to be cautious – an unhappy un-achiever is the perfect fodder for the tabloids. Sherlock’s eyes land on the Minster. A hand reaches up and fiddles with his right ear lobe, tugging it slightly. Mycroft realises that Sherlock has his hearing aid in and the Minister has seen this and drawn his own, stupid, pedestrian opinions on Sherlock. And from the curl of his lip Sherlock obviously has his opinions too.

‘Nice to meet you.’ Says the Minister. ‘I won’t shake your hand.’ He then leans over towards Mycroft and says in stage whisper. ‘Can he hear me?’

‘No!’ Says Sherlock loudly, making the Minister jump.

 _Deaf. But can read lips!_ Sherlock signs gesturing at his ears and then his lips, as he signs he thrusts his face angrily at the Minister. He then bends gracefully down and scoops up the butter dish, which he tucks under one arm before stalking from the living room. As he passes the Aide he blows a raspberry in his face. The Aide flinches back. When he was younger Mycroft had tried to, in his own mind categorise this particular piece of his brother’s communication, the closest he ever came was the French exclamation ‘Bof!’ Though Sherlock’s version usually communicated much more anger or emotion about a subject. In the end a teenaged Mycroft filed the word in his Sherlock cabinet and decided not to fret too much. Now he just flinches as Sherlock slams the door.

Later he remains tight lipped about Sherlock. The most disservice he will do for his brother is to call him an eccentric, in response to the Minister’s loaded questions about Sherlock’s Deafness. Mycroft wishes it was as simple as 'Sherlock. Genius.' Preferable to explaining why Sherlock was still wearing his pyjamas at 3pm, or why the butter dish was on the living room floor and the butter somewhere unmentionable. And infinitely preferable to telling yet another idiot that lip-reading meant reading lips not the back's of heads and that Deaf meant Deaf not stupid.

 _What were you doing with the butter dish?_ Mycroft asks later. _Experiment_ . Signs Sherlock with a shrug.

_Sherlock, this is my home and workplace and you need to respect that._

_Maybe you should just lock me up in my room then._ Sherlock tosses in a mime of throwing away the key for good measure.

_Don’t be ridiculous._

_Did you tell him I was stupid then?_  Asks Sherlock, his hand moving to fiddle with his hearing aid.

 _What’s wrong? Is your hearing aid not working?_ Mycroft asks. Sherlock drops his hand from his ear and shakes his head distractedly.

 _Did you tell him I was stupid?_  Repeats Sherlock.

 _What. No of course not._ Replies Mycroft.  Sherlock‘s hand is back tugging at his earlobe, it’s already red from his treatment.  

 _But you didn’t deny it. Because they asked didn’t they?_   And Mycroft finds his shoulders moving up into a shrug, but he aborts the movement, too late for Sherlock. Sherlock flushes red.  

‘I hate….’ He says out loud, but leaves the sentence hanging. ‘I hate…. I hate….I hate….’ Sherlock is on repeat vocally and his hands are clawing upwards from his abdomen to his chest with each word.  If this was a 10 year old Sherlock stood in front of him, this inability to find the words would indicate that a meltdown was imminent. Best snap him out of it.

Mycroft takes a firm step forwards and grasps Sherlock firmly by the shoulders. The physical contact jolts Sherlock who stops repeating and stares at Mycroft. Mycroft gives one firm squeeze and steps back. He looks carefully at Sherlock.

‘What do you hate? Is it me? It’s usually me?’ Mycroft prompts.

 ‘I hate…’ begins Sherlock once again. ‘This fucking hearing aid!’ And he yanks the hearing aid out so harshly that Mycroft winces, and throws it at Mycroft’s chest.    Mycroft fumbles but catches it and when he looks up Sherlock is gone.

The hearing aid is neat, small and new. Sherlock only wears it in his left ear, the only ear that really benefits from any hearing aid. Later Mycroft carefully places it back in the case Sherlock has for it in the bathroom.

The next morning Sherlock wanders in for breakfast, wearing his hearing aid. He avoids Mycroft’s gaze as he sits at the table. Mycroft’s housekeeper comes in slightly later, as her hand’s our occupied with carrying a large tray of bread, butter and jam, she lets door slam shut after her.    It’s not a loud bang, but it does boom and reverberate in the high ceiling dining room. Sherlock looks up sharply as the door closes and turns quickly towards the door and then back towards Mycroft

 _Door?_ He queries quickly.

Mycroft nods. Sherlock nods contemplatively. Seeing that Sherlock looks fairly calm and relaxed he dares to venture a question.

 _I am intrigued by your hearing aid._ Sherlock looks at him sharply.

_How much does it help?_

Sherlock actually thinks for a moment.

He wavers a hand back and forth and then pinches the air _a little_.

_Makes me aware, aware of sound. No not sound. Movement. Vibrations._

Sherlock eats two bowl of cereal, a mountain of toast, and downs glasses of orange juice as if it’s going out of fashion. And Mycroft just watches and listens, as Sherlock wanders from the specifics of his hearing aid to the broader issue of hearing and communication. It remains strictly medical and technical in nature. But in it Mycroft can understand a little of Sherlock’s frustrations. A little better perhaps.

Mycroft watches Sherlock carefully, very aware that too much interest will be misread as patronising or interference and too little as distain and dismissal. Sherlock is a careful person to balance.

There is a gentle lull in the conversation, and Mycroft finds himself half staring out the window and half thinking about his schedule for the day, when Sherlock flaps a hand across the table at him, the other hand banging the table softly so that the silverware chinks together. Mycroft starts slightly and swivels back to Sherlock.

 _You should interpret._ Mycroft frowns. Sherlock’s expression is caught between haughty and hurt. Mycroft straightens up in his seat.

 _You should interpret._ Repeats Sherlock. _When there are people speaking English. Interpret for me._

‘Ah.’ Breaths Mycroft and he colours slightly as he remembers the incident the morning before, where he didn’t even introduce Sherlock to the Minister, not until Sherlock had left the room. Of course Mycroft had been distracted by the amount of lard his brother was wearing, but interpreting should never be about choosing what you think should be communicated or when it should be communicated.

 _Sorry._ He rubs a fist against his chest. _I forgot._

Sherlock inclines his head and then launches into a monologue about a study he had been reading about last night on deaf cats – _apparently brain regions important for hearing got co-opted to enhance vision_. Mycroft had to ask him to explain that bit again. Sherlock does. Mycroft watches as Sherlock excitedly gestures at his own curly hair covered brain with a fork, signing rapidly with one hand _What do you think?_ And Mycroft, just for a moment feels like he’s back in Cambridge watching his baby brother come to life.   


	7. Mine Fields; Fields of Mines

If you were to ask John Watson to use the words Sherlock Holmes and kids in the same sentence he would probably frown slightly before providing you with a sentence featuring not only those words but also the words mine and field.

_Sherlock Holmes and kids equals minefield._

John knew that the Mollies of this world wanted Sherlock to be unexpectedly and completely marvellous with children. Mollies were a category of people that, in John’s head were besotted with Sherlock Holmes, who despite harsh words and arrogant dismissal still remained starry eyed. John was occasionally a Molly himself.  And if Sherlock did not actually have hidden parenting skills and child care depths then Mollies really wanted children to be unexpectedly marvellous with Sherlock. In either case a meeting between a child and Sherlock should ultimately be life-affirming in an amusing and unexpected way.   
  
In reality Sherlock was just himself with children and talked to them the same way he talked to adults; with an air of superiority and as if they were idiots. Of course talking to children as if they were adults was a tactic that was either absolutely perfect or absolutely terrible. Children loved being treated like adults. But on the other hand they generally didn’t bounce back well from insults about their parents or their pet rabbits. Their _dead_ parents. Their _dead_ rabbits.

So John approached any situation involving a child and Sherlock Holmes with more than a little trepidation.

One dreary Tuesday afternoon, Sherlock was called in to consult on a case; supposedly a clear-cut suicide but Lestrade had his suspicions. _Just got a funny feeling about this one Sherlock. I don’t understand why she didn’t leave a note. All those family photos in her flat. Something strange_. John and Sherlock, there was no interpreter booked today which was making Sherlock antsy, even though he would never admit it were at the crime scene, a high rise tower block out in east London. They were stood outside in the quadrangle that sat in the middle of the three tower blocks, and the car park that made up the four sides of the estate, the wind half-heartedly whipping around them, a dampness in the air promising a rain storm that hadn’t materialised, yet.  Earlier Lestrade had walked them through the dead woman’s flat where Sherlock had peered carefully at every photo, his nose pressed up to the glass. Then, outside in the quadrangle Lestrade had gone over the remaining details and Sherlock had watched Lestrade with that strange intensity he had before abruptly turning and wandering off across the estate.

‘Got any ideas then? Sherlock!’ Lestrade had half-heartedly shouted at Sherlock’s back.

John and Lestrade had stood for a bit, watching as Sherlock busily mapped out the edges of the quadrangle – pacing the grass, before wandering over to the small playground that sat in one corner – John and Lestrade watched as he pushed at one of the swings – sending it into motion. Lestrade raised an eyebrow at John who shrugged. Lestrade started to mutter about coffee and sandwiches when John noticed a woman and a small boy approaching them. One of the boy’s hands was held tightly by the woman.

‘Hi. Excuse me?’ She said as she approached them. ‘Police right?’

Lestrade straightened up at that, smoothing down his tie and greeted the woman, who visibly relaxed after Lestrade showed her his badge and gave his job title.

The boy was blonde with dark brown eyes which squinted up at Lestrade and John as the adults spoke.  

‘You’re investigating Catherine?’ The woman had said to which Lestrade nodded. ‘I spoke to one of your officers earlier, but then, well, this is my son Luke.’

‘Hi Luke.’ Lestrade directed down at Luke.

But Luke now only had eyes for Sherlock who was currently sat hunched over on a swing, with his coat up around his ears like some kind of overgrown scrawny bat. Luke’s Mum was explaining that they knew the murder victim, Cathy and that they lived in the tower block opposite hers. Luke was tugging at his Mum’s hand edging towards the playground.

‘Is he with you?’ Asked his Mum indicating Sherlock with a nod of her head. ‘Is it alright, is he working right now?’ At their reassurances she let go of Luke’s hand and nudged him towards the playground with the touch of one hand to his shoulder. As Luke shot across the grass, she turned to Lestrade and John ‘I hope your colleague is good with kids. He’s about to get the full-on Luke experience.’

John smiled and hoped Luke was prepared for the full on Sherlock experience.

Bren, Luke’s Mum wrapped her cardigan around her, hugging her arms against her body. ‘He saw your friend out of our living room window. And then suddenly he was going nine to the dozen about the _deaf detective._ ’

Lestrade and John exchanged surprised glances.

‘He is Deaf isn’t he?’ Bren asked in mild alarm. At their nods she breathed. ‘Luke saw him out of the window, I guess he’d seen him with the uniformed officers, and then said he’d seen him counting on his hands.’

She held up her right hand to demonstrate, her hand twisting through the number signs. John recognised how Sherlock would pace sometimes counting out something on his hands.

‘Clever kid.’ Said Lestrade. Bren smiled. And they all looked towards the playground – where Luke was now stood in front of Sherlock’s swing – one hand pushing back his hair to proudly display a red hearing aid to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eye lit up in recognition and he lifted his hands up _You sign?_

Luke bounced on his toes. Nodding. _Yes. Yes. Yes!_

John honestly wasn’t sure who looked more delighted. Sherlock jumped up from the swing, and grabbed Luke under the arms and deftly swung him up onto the swing. Luke shrieked in delight and grabbed hold of the steel link chains that held the swing seat to the frame above. To John’s surprise Sherlock sat cross legged on the floor opposite Luke resting his elbows on his knees. John presumed (it was hard to tell from this distance) that he wore his _tell me everything_ face.

First things first Luke removed his hearing aid and held it out in one hand for Sherlock to inspect.

‘It’s a new hearing aid. It’s red which makes it totally cool.’ Explained Bren shaking her head fondly.

Second things second Luke put back in his hearing aid, and asked if Sherlock had one.   
  
Sherlock shook his head. But then seemed to think better and indicated home. _No….well yes but it’s at home._  
  
Luke launched into a long monologue of signs – pointing up at his flat and across at Cathy’s. Sherlock nodded along carefully.   
  
Meanwhile Bren explained what she knew.

‘Said it wasn’t anyone he recognised, but that they looked nervous maybe like they didn’t want  someone to see them going in Cathy’ flat.’

‘Ok that’s really useful. Great in fact.’ Says Lestrade, scribbling some notes down in his notepad. ‘ I’m going to get an officer to come over and speak to you both about this more, get a full description, is that ok?’

Bren shrugs ‘Anything to help. Cathy was a good person.’ They all wander over towards the playground.   
  
Luke had by now finished his story, John had watched as Sherlock asked a few questions and Luke replied. But soon Sherlock is just signing as Luke watches. At one point Sherlock had leapt to his feet and as he continued to sign, he pulled Luke’s swing forward and then let him go, the seat sailing backwards through air, Luke shrieking as he flies back and then towards Sherlock. In between each push Sherlock carried on signing at Luke. This game lasted for only a minute or so and then Sherlock paced around the playground  - but never turning his back on Luke. Luke didn’t seem upset, instead jumping off the swing mid arc, landing in a way that made John’s knees ache. As John, Lestrade and Bren headed towards them, Luke was following Sherlock around, his face rapt with attention,  walking backwards, ducking, as Sherlock weaved his way around the playground.

‘Are you getting this?’John asks Lestrade as they reach the edge of the playground.   
  
‘No not really. He’s gone into supersonic speed.’

Bren frowned at the scene ‘I don’t understand why he’s telling him what he had for lunch.’

‘Mum! Mum!’ Luke shouted as his right hand patted against the side of his head. ‘This is Sherlock.’ He turned towards Sherlock as he finished fingerspelling his name and Sherlock nodded. Luke beamed. Then  Luke made a strange, to John’s eyes at least movement around his neck, he seemed to pinch the air on either side of his neck just above his shoulders and made a flicking movement upwards. Sherlock reddened at this just as Bren said ‘Luke.’ Her tone half warning admonishment and half exasperated fondness.

 Luke just grinned up at Sherlock and then spun back towards his Mum. 

‘I’m watching you.’ Bren swung two pointed fingers from her eye towards Luke.

Luke bounced on his toes as he signed rapidly at his Mum, eyes wide twisting to look at Sherlock and then back at his Mum who watched him slightly bemusedly.

‘Ah.’ Said Lestrade.

‘Bit not good?’ Asked John.

‘Bit not good.’ Confirmed Lestrade. ‘Sherlock told him about the skull. And that you had a Mars Bar, a Whispa and an Iron-Bru for lunch.’

It was John’s turn to redden and he gave Lestrade a sideways look. ‘Well yes. You would too if you lived with him.’

Bren chuckled and shook her head at Luke. Luke’s eyes widened and he spun towards John, as he saw the blank look crossing John’s face at his signing, he switched to English.

‘Tell her.’ His voice was round and soft like Sherlock’s but higher pitched. ‘Tell her about Mars Bars and Whispa!’

John reddened further and coughed. ‘It’s true I did.’ He remembered the sign for true at the last moment and Luke’s eyes lit up in triumphant.

Bren laughed. ‘God it’ll be what he wants for lunch every day from now on!’

 _And you_ , Bren signed to Sherlock. _Do you have a skull?_

Sherlock looked at Bren, down at Luke and across at John. His brow creased and John has a moment of startling clarity as he realised exactly what Sherlock is thinking, Sherlock was not sure what the _right_ thing to do it is.

‘Yes…’ Said Sherlock’s voice and he nodded once sharply. 

Lestrade started slightly at that. Luke whirled around to his Mum his triumphant complete. _I told you. I told you_ he signed gleefully. Bren shared a knowing look with Sherlock ( _Kids hey!_ ) and Sherlock frowned and then offered a vague smile. John had a sudden urge to hug him.

Sherlock rubbed a fist against his chest. _Sorry._  He shook his head _Can’t lie._ The tip of one finger touched his nose and then swung out.

 Bren’s smile widened. And Sherlock scrunched his nose slightly. .  

‘It’s fine. It’s good to meet a Deaf adult. Good role model for him a Deaf police officer.’

Lestrade and John both kept wisely silent.

Sherlock nodded at her and then turned to Luke. _Keep using your eyes._ And then wandered back over to the playground. Luke waved goodbye enthusiastically – slightly crestfallen that he had to make the sign to Sherlock’s back. John sympathised.

Bren turned to Luke. _Home_ she signed. John always forgot that that sign didin’t specifically mean 221b Baker Street.  Lestrade shook her hand and passed over his card. As she walked off Luke hung back slightly, and then turned to Lestrade and John. His face was serious as if he has some great secret to impart, and he beckoned them both closer, and whispered to them both eyes wide, hand movement slowly but with emphasis ‘He showed me the sign for murderer.’

‘Best not tell your Mum that.’ Said John in alarm as Lestrade quickly made shushing movements with his hands. Luke nodded sagely, then dashed off heading first in the opposite direction to his Mum so that he could loop around in front of Sherlock.

‘Bye Sherlock!’ He yelled, hands waving. Then he dashed off after his Mum who was waiting at the door to the block of flats.

Later Sherlock, Lestrade and John were walking back towards the main road.

 _‘Did you tell a small child the sign for murderer?’_ John managed to sign the whole question apart from having to fingerspell murderer.  ‘ _You’ve never told me the sign for murderer.’_

‘Context.’ Snapped Sherlock out loud and then he signed. _Killler, Mugging. Murderer._ _Same sign. Same sign. Different lip pattern._

 _‘What did he tell you?’_ Interrupted Lestrade slightly exasperatedly.

‘Apparently red hearing aids make things sound better.’ Sherlock saiad with a shrug. _Strange child_ he signs.

 _What did you tell him?_ John asked.

 _Things_. Is Sherlock’s vague sign, which Lestrade interprets upon seeing John’s confusion.

‘What was that sign he did?’ John asked mimicking the strange pinch and flick movement Luke had made up around his neck.

‘Sign name.’ Said Sherlock with a dismissive tone. Lestrade reached over and grabbed at Sherlock’s collar flicking it up. Sherlock yelped and slapped Lestrade’s hands away, before stalking off ahead of them. John turned to Lestrade.

‘Sign name. ‘ He offered. ‘A way to say someone’s name in sign without having to fingerspell their name out. Usually something distinctive about how the _person_ looks.’

‘Oh.’ Said John dully.  

‘Sherlock’s calls me _grey_.’ Lestrade says wryly,  he formed a fist with his right hand and stuck his pinky finger out and rubbed it over his left fist. _Grey._

‘Ohhh.’ Said John in realisation and then sniggered. ‘Sherlock.’ He said miming flicking his collar up. Soon both him and Greg were giggling which turned into full blown chuckles as Sherlock turned and threw what could only be described as a filthy look over his shoulder at them both.

‘Oi!’ Called John as Sherlock turned forwards again, John broke into a light jog to catch up with Sherlock. ‘Hey.’ He said placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock shrugged him off and so John jogged on the spot in front of him, mimicking Luke’s movements in the playground.

‘What’s my name sign?’ John asked, loosely attempting the signs as he jogged backwards. Sherlock frowned at him, so John tried again, Sherlock’s frown deepened. John was about to try again when Sherlock stopped suddenly and grabbed John to still him.

John stilled and repeated ‘What’s my sign name?’

Sherlock’s expression cleared and then he shrugged and made to move off. But john stopped him. ‘Come on, what’s your sign name for me. I can take it. Sherlock!’

Sherlock stared blankly at John for a moment before his face slid into a slightly calculating gaze. Then he made a quick motion against the side of his head.

‘Muppet. He called you a muppet.’ Said Lestrade, who had now caught up with them.

John surpresses a desire  to punch Sherlock, just. Something must have shown on his face because Sherlock steps cautiously out of reach.

Over the next week or so John spends a lot of time trying to goad a sign name out of Sherlock, who responds with an increasingly offence stream of supposeded sign names.

_Cuddly._

_Ancient man._

_Jumper._

_Limpy._

At one point Sherlock had rounded on John and said ‘You know this is all terribly offensive. The mocking of this BSL convention – this is just what members of the Deaf community have to put up with all the time!’

John had simply retorted ‘Whenever have you ever cared about that stuff!’

And then finally. ‘John!’ Sherlock had shouted one morning across the breakfast table. Both John and Mrs Hudson who was pouring the tea had jumped.

‘I call you John.’ Said Sherlock, ‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘Well yes.’ Said John and Sherlock snapped the newspaper open and held it up in front of his face.

And yes – I guess it was.


	8. Hobnobs and Hospitals

Mycroft Holmes does not rush and he does not run.  
  
It was approximately eight minutes into his 10 O’Clock meeting on an unremarkable Tuesday morning that one of his assistants had entered the room and whispered quietly into his ear. Mycroft’s alarm was enough, that he left the meeting immediately. As he gave his apologies to his guests he had taken the precaution of justifying it, in his own mind at least as a purely tactical move; it always paid to make your opponents believe that they weren’t the only ones vying for your attention. Mycroft Holmes does not panic. As he walked down the hallway to his office he quietly berated the assistant sent to fetch him for not having come with the full information on his brother’s condition. Of course strict instructions existed that all assistants were to come immediately to him with any news regarding his brother. Do not ask questions, do not wait, do not pass go and do not tell Sherlock were issued to all his staff on their first day. In his office Anthea was already on the phone, and there had been a tense few minutes whilst she confirmed that Mycroft was not needed at the hospital, at least not immediately. It wasn’t that kind of emergency. Mycroft took a deep breath, shared a brief look with Anthea and returned to his meeting and two sets of nervous eyes. Tactics.  
  
Mycroft Holmes did not rush to the hospital.  
  
Later that day, it was a little after noon in fact, Mycroft found that his arrival at the hospital coincided with the arrival of Sherlock’s interpreter. Contrary to popular belief Mycroft Holmes did not control the NHS, and he assumed that Sherlock’s arrival in a private room was either down to a need to keep Sherlock away from the other patients, or just plain luck. Mycroft did not put much stock in luck.  
  
The interpreter smiled briefly up at Mycroft as she ducked under his arm whilst he held the door open for her. ‘Hello Mycroft.’ The words quietly pushed out on a breath. The last tendrils of fear that had been snaking around Mycroft’s rib cage were pushed away by the scene that greeted them in the room.  
  
Sherlock was sat up on a hospital bed craning away from the attentions of a flustered nurse; an outstretched hand waving _No_ at her. The nurse’s head snapped up at the sound of the door opening and Sherlock had quickly followed her gaze, twisting awkwardly around in the bed to look at them both.  
  
An ugly red gash cut down the left hand side of his face; the concealing blood that streaked his cheek and crusted the edge of the gash told Mycroft that Sherlock must have been waiting for at least 3 hours in casualty before being seen. The gap of an hour between Sherlock’s arrival at the hospital and the interruption of the 10 O’clock meeting did not go unnoticed by Mycroft, he crossed his hands behind his back and the thumb of his right hand tapped out his annoyance against the palm of his left. Additionally given his brother’s prior propensity for avoiding medical assistance and carrying out his own First Aid, Mycroft wondered what had compelled him to wait for those three hours. It was moderately alarming. Moderately. As Sherlock’s eyes lit up upon seeing his interpreter Mycroft had part of his answer. Sherlock didn’t even bother with a scowl for Mycroft, as he batted away the hands of the nurse and beckoned the interpreter, Emily forward.   
  
She moved down to the foot of the bed. She greeted Sherlock making a polite but earnest enquiry about his face,, which he waved off, before introducing herself to the nurse as Sherlock’s interpreter.  
  
The nurse glanced from Sherlock to the interpreter. ‘Interpreter? Sorry I don’t understand.’  
  
The interpreter relayed this to Sherlock, which resulted in an eye roll. The nurse stared at the interpreter’s hands as she spoke.  
  
‘I’m here to support Mr Holmes’s communication.’  
  
‘His communication…..’ The nurse glanced back at Sherlock her face creasing into a frown. Sherlock heaved a sigh; Mycroft kept his frustrations internally, but nevertheless found himself taking a step forward.  
  
‘Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brother.’ He said smoothly, he allowed Emily to sign. ‘I believe my brother asked for an interpreter? A sign language interpreter. And here you have a sign language interpreter.’   
  
The nurse looked at him; new, young, dull – processed Mycroft. He smiled politely as she reddened slightly ‘Sorry? He’s…’  
  
‘Deaf. Yes.’ Mycroft finished his tone the example of patience.  
  
Sherlock scowled. _I’m Deaf._ He signed angrily. _She’s my interpreter. You’re stupid.  
  
_ Emily interpreted flawlessly and managed to, as always inject the right level of Sherlockian distain and sarcasm into her voice. Remarkable really. Mycroft might even compliment her on it one day.  
  
The nurse’s gaze which had been flickering nervously between Sherlock and Emily, now drew sharply back and her mouth fell open at the insult. Emily nodded gently at Sherlock.  
  
‘You’re talking to him not me.’  
  
‘I’m sorry…’ The nurse began swivelling back to Sherlock. But Sherlock waved her away with a hand. Before signing _You can go. My interpreter can fix me up now_.  
  
Mycroft’s eyebrows raised and he looked over at Emily.  
  
‘I’m sorry.’ The nurse said to the interpreter. ‘But really I need to clean and stitch..’  
  
The nurse jumped as Sherlock crashed his hand against the rail of the bed, cross at being spoken about and not to.  
  
_I told you to go!_  He signed at the flustered nurse. _And you can clean me up_. He signed at his interpreter.  
  
To her credit Emily had continued to calmly do her job. But at this last sentence her voice faltered. She raised a hand to Sherlock, her face alarmed.  
  
Sherlock’s face creased and he wrinkled his nose at her. _Problem?_  He tapped his right thumb against the palm of his left hand.   
  
Red-faced she opened and closed her mouth a few times, before settling on. _What do you want me to say?_ She signed but didn’t speak.  
  
‘Say? I don’t want you to say anything. I want you to interpret…’Sherlock’s haughty tones rolled around the room.  
  
Mycroft had stood back content to let the familiar scene play out for a few minutes but at this last rude statement from his brother he stepped forward and brought his hand down hard on the railing of the bed. Like with Sherlock’s movements earlier the occupants of the room jumped, apart from Sherlock who simply slid his annoyed gaze from his interpreter to his brother.  
  
_Enough!_ Mycroft signed. Then before Sherlock could react he reached out and grabbed his chin. Momentarily shocked into silence Sherlock merely stared at his brother. Mycroft saw Emily make an abortive move towards them. But he ignored her as he jerked Sherlock’s head sideways, angling it so he could see the gash more clearly. Sherlock allowed him approximately 2 seconds before angrily pulling his head out of Mycroft’s grasp, but it was enough time to assess the wound, and to notice the slightly dazed look in Sherlock’s eyes, the right one bloodshot.  
  
‘This is fine. I will take care of this.’   
  
He dismissed the nurse, who protested less than perhaps she should have at a patient being taken out of her care so abruptly and hurried out of the room. Sherlock’s face was turned away from Mycroft his angry gaze on the wall. Mycroft turned to Emily and told her that she could go also. As he predicted she lingered. The corners of her lips twitched up into a smile as she glanced at Mycroft, he knew she was still nervous of him ( _Not nervous! Scared._ Sherlock’s face and hands insisted in Mycroft’s memory). Still. She straightened her cardigan and moved into Sherlock’s eye line.  
  
_Your brother said I should go now._ No longer speaking. Sherlock didn’t respond for a few moments. She just waited. Finally Sherlock nodded.  
  
Mycroft wanted to wince at the lack of manners. But she’s unperturbed. Her right hand moves towards herself as it forms the shape of a hand holding a mobile phone. _Text me_.  
  
Sherlock repeated the sign back but moved his hand towards her _I’ll text you_. He spoke as well, his tone mocking, eyes rolling. Mycroft did sometimes wondered if his brother had any other way to communicate.  
  
Mycroft grimaced at the tone. Emily’s lips pursed slightly but she didn’t leave.    
  
She’d once said to Mycroft. ‘I don’t need him to be nice to me, I just need to know what he wants me to do.’  
  
Finally Sherlock jerked his head at her and miraculously signed a short thank you.  
  
Prissy bastard thought Mycroft as Sherlock tossed his head.   
  
Emily, for her part merely nodded at Sherlock before telling him that she’d be available all day. Mycroft held the door open for her and murmured his own thanks as she left. She threw Mycroft a half frustrated half embarrassed smile as she passed.   
  
Sherlock was silent as Mycroft cleaned his head using the equipment left by the nurse. He wasn’t gentle and Sherlock’s eyes stared balefully up at him. The wound didn't require stitches, though it was long. Shouldn't scar thought Mycroft.   
  
‘You know.’ Mycroft said, his tone even and measured. ‘You really shouldn't treat Emily like that. She is a professional Sherlock. Please try to remember.’

  
‘She’s my assistant.’ Sherlock mumbled back, his hands listlessly formed the sign.

  
‘You hired her as your interpreter. Not as your assistant.’

  
Sherlock huffed.

  
‘Sherlock – treat her with the respect she deserves as a professional. She is not here to fix your scrapes.’  
  
A soft knock at the door signaled the arrival of Mycroft’s real and actual current assistant. Sherlock scowled as she stepped into the room. A few moments later she was gone, dispatched to fetch the car and sort out the paperwork.

  
Mycroft lent back. _What happened?_

 _  
_ Sherlock deliberately misunderstood and launched into a complaint about the National Health Service, a lack of Deaf awareness and the general stupidity of all members of the medical profession.

  
When he’s quite finished, which coincided with the final swipe of an antiseptic wipe, Mycroft asked again with meaning. _What happened here?_  A meaningful touch to Sherlock’s forehead, where a bruise started before widening into the gash. Sherlock always did do better with physical reinforcement of questions.

  
To Mycroft’s mild amusement Sherlock looked slightly sheepish.  He held his hands up, dropped them and then finally reluctantly signed

  
_Mugged._ He indicated that they hit him from behind over the head and that he’d tried to fight back but they’d hit him again, and he’d fallen.

  
Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. _How many?_

 _  
_ Sherlock held up 3 fingers and then signed _on bikes_. 

  
_Take your wallet_ _  
_

_  
_ A nod. _Wallet and phone._

 _  
_ _On a case?_

 _  
_ _Go Tescos._

 _  
_ _Tescos?_ Mycroft repeated the sign, and quirked an eyebrow.

  
_Mrs Hudson._ Sherlock used the sign name he doesn’t use when Mrs Hudson can see him, a kind of motion down the front of his chest – a gesture towards the fussy, frilly tops she often wears. _Mrs Hudson gone away!_

 _  
_ _I need things_. Sherlock signed, clearly annoyed at Mrs Hudson’s audacious holiday plans.

  
Sherlock’s gaze flickered to the armchair besides the bed.

  
‘At least the little shits let me keep the hobnobs.’ He said out loud.

  
Mycroft could see the Tesco’s bag sat there on the armchair, perched on top of Sherlock’s ridiculous coat. He caught Sherlock’s gaze, Sherlock looked back haughtily, Mycroft’s lips twitched. Sherlock looked mildly offended.

  
Later they’re in the car headed for Sherlock’s new flat. Mycroft wanted to tease Sherlock about the hobnobs, he knew they were brought for Emily’s benefit. But as he turned to his brother and once again saw the red gash, and where the skin under his left eye had started to swell and turn purple he couldn't quite muster up the requisite sibling rivalry. 

  
As the car pulled up to the curb outside 221B Baker Street neither Mycroft nor Sherlock were surprised to see Emily sat in the adjoining coffee shop. Mycroft still wasn’t sure if it was a soft-spot that Sherlock had for her, or whether something about her intrigued him enough to keep her around. He worried it was the latter and that when the mystery was solved she would be gone.  Sherlock’s relationships were a big a mystery to Mycroft as they ever were. Surprisingly he’d had similar difficulties determining Emily’s motivations.

  
Sherlock was already climbing out of the car, when Mycroft reached over and grasped his arm.  
  
_Make sure Emily gets her biscuits._  
  
In response Sherlock slammed the car door. Emily was already outside the café’ waiting for him. As his car pulled away from the curb Mycroft watched them greet. A glance into the wing mirror saw Sherlock producing the hobnobs with a flourish from behind his back, the plastic Tescos bag lay abandoned on the seat next to Mycroft. The last thing Mycroft saw as they make the turn at the end of the street was Emily laughing.

  
Ah. Maybe they both just liked each other. Mycroft hummed to himself. Mysterious.

 


	9. Sherlock's Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which baby Sherlock saves up his smiles.

William was 3 months old, and he had not smiled. William’s mother knew that babies generally smiled between six and eight weeks old. The books told her that. Some babies smiled a little earlier and some a little later. Just give it some time, everyone said, including Sherlock’s father.  
  
Mycroft smiled when he was 5 and a half weeks old, a big broad smile stretched across chubby cheeks.  A smile that was repeated, on cue for his Father when he, returning from work was called straight into the living room where baby Mycroft was laying on a soft blue blanket batting at the toys that dangled over him. And oh she knew she shouldn’t, she mustn’t compare William to Mycroft. But what else could she do? She didn’t buy the baby books when she had Mycroft but she had acquired half a small library since Sherlock's arrival.  
  
William was always known as Sherlock to his Father, 'Too many Williams in this household,' he'd explain, 'And he's not really a Will.' But later she see's it as further proof that he always knew best when it came to Sherlock. So William's Father speculated that Sherlock was just saving his smiles. And may he was, or maybe he was keeping them secret - smiling when everyone was asleep or had just left the room. But she knew, no she felt that babies didn't work like that. Instead an overwhelming feeling of despair threatened to overtake her when baby William’s cries would ring through the house, a screechy red-faced wail and Father would scoop up the baby into his long arms, and whirl him gently around the room hunched over, baby held close to his face, noses touching, and within a few minutes, the cries would stop and baby William would stare up into his Father’s face. Blue meeting blue. Will got the first smile out of Sherlock, which seemed to accompany his first laugh – all out of order and out of sorts was William, was Sherlock. Too many names for such a small person.  
  
It was a Tuesday, and it was raining outside. Sherlock had, unusually slept the night through. He’d woken up at 5 for a feed and then fallen asleep cuddled aginst his Mum and a plump white pillow. But he had woken her later with squalling, and not just squalling but tears. Not the dry faced crying of demand but seemingly tears of frustration and despair (Will of course told her not to over complicate things, 'He's just a baby things aren’t that complicated with him yet, they’re just not.’) Sherlock wouldn't quiten, not in his mother’s arms, not at her breast and not for a nappy change, not for cuddles or songs or jiggles, or cuddly toys or a finger to chew on. Until Will came in and scooped him up gently, curling a finger around for Sherlock to hold onto. She watched listlessly from the bed as Will bent low over Sherlock and whispered words to him. He sat back on the bed, back against the headboard, flipping one then the other slipper off, as he knew she hated them on the bed, and crossed his long legs at the ankles, nudging his toes against hers, she curled her legs up and away from his, bruised from Sherlock’s rejection, from his indifference. Not ready for touch, not yet. Will did not say anything but bent low over Sherlock, she can’t remember the words – but she remembered how 3 month-old baby Sherlock’s eyes would stare up, tiny, tiny fingers wrapped around his Father's forefinger (how she would remember those tiny fingers when she sees grown up William’s, grown-up Sherlock’s great big knotted hands doing graceful things with test tubes and beakers).  
  
‘He's watching me Nelly,’ Will says softly, ‘Watching me.’ And Sherlock’s Father moved his head up and down and from side to side. And Sherlock’s eyes follow him sharply, little wobbling head bobbing. William wasn't speaking but he made noises at his Father, an series of ‘oh’ and ‘ah ah ah’, stretching and extending his mouth and his face. Will placed Sherlock on his back on the bed and reached over to the bedside to grab a soft toy – this one a zebra with four brightly coloured elongated legs – one with a bell attached, another with scrunchy fabric, another filled with beads and the other of baby soft material. He dangled the zebra creature over Sherlock and Sherlock flapped his arms at the legs that dangle just out of reach. Nell watched as Sherlock closed his eyes as the soft blue fabric of one leg is traced gently down his nose and then open again as the scunchy material scratches at his bare leg. She sighed and Will looked up at her, face softening. He carefully placed the toy next to Sherlock who latched onto a bell and sucked it into his mouth. Expression almost thoughtful.  
  
Will stood up and moved around to her side of the bed, ‘Come on Nelly – up you get and I’ll make you a cup of tea, and then we’ll play with the boys in the living room. The sun’s about to come out I feel it.’  
  
She rolled her eyes towards the dark clouds that are pressing against the window, ‘It is going to stop raining, I just know it. ‘

It did not stop raining.

Two weeks later and baby William was 3 months and 2 weeks old. Only 2 weeks away from 4 months old. He does not smile, he does not laugh. And Mycroft was turning into a serious little boy and the house felt quite quiet. Will attempting to laugh for all of them. They were in the living room and it was raining outside like it had never stopped. This time it was baby William on the blue blue rug near to the fireplace. He was  on his back trying to fit his toes into his mouth with the flexibility only bendy boned babies are allowed. Mycroft slouched into the room and declared that he's 'Bored!’ He wandered over to the baby and peered down at him, baby William was not quite interesting enough for a clever 7 year old yet. ‘Why don't you play something Mike?’ Said Will. Mycroft scowled at his Dad but did scuff his way over to the piano. Such a scruffy and grumpy 7 yr old he was, she can’t always quite believe he’s the same person now he’s all grown up. Maybe he isn’t, maybe that’s the point. But when he got to the piano he declared ‘I am going to do composing.’ Both his parents winced, composing at that moment meant bashing about on the keys at random. It is not entirely wthout structure but but it’s not really baby naptime friendly. But Mycroft was at it before anyone can stop him. As Mycroft hit the high notes, literally both parents shoot their eyes over to baby William, who just carried on sucking on his toes at the notes fell around him. ‘He isn’t listening.’ Declared Mycroft and then launched into some Mozart playing that was still so astonishing for a 7 yr old that neither parent could do anything but concentrate on their eldest.

It was 4 and a half months and even Will looks a little like he’s willing to concede that maybe baby Sherlock wasn't smiling in his sleep or waiting until they all left the room.  
  
Mycroft was composing again as Father entered the room, gently bouncing baby Sherlock in his arms.

‘Watcha doin’ Myc?’ Asked Father, Mycroft’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, ‘Composing.’ He said airily or as airily as a 7 yr old with a slight lisp and squidgy cheeks could manage.  
  
'Play something quietly Myc. Do some quiet composing. Baby Sherlock looks like he's going to sleep. Soon.’  
  
And because Mum was not around he gently laid baby Sherlock on the piano lid, one hand cradling the back of Sherlock’s skull. Sherlock did always seem to perk up a little up when Mycroft played the piano. A couple of cushions from the arm chair next to the piano and Sherlock was all swaddled in and in no danger of falling off.  
  
Will was just the other side of the room picking something to read whilst Sherlock rested on the piano, when Mycroft announced. ‘He does not want quiet, he wants loud.’ And launched, and launched was the only way to describe it – his little body, arms and fists at the piano. Bashing away at the low notes of the piano, thundering piano sounds filled the room and Will launched across the room to scoop up a surely noise traumatised baby. But all he found as he bent over Sherlock, voice silenced by a mutinous Mycroft at the piano was a smiling wide eyed baby. Wiggling as the notes rang and vibrated across the piano lid.

Will stared down at Sherlock for two seconds before yelling ‘Nell! Nell!’ Who came tearing into the room, surely thinking that her oldest was having some kind of musical fit or was beating his father to death with a grand piano. Will grabbed her arms as she runs into the room, spinning her around as he led her over the piano. ‘He’s doing it, he’s doing it!’  
Nell sucked in a breath as Sherlock smiled up at her. And she felt like she was smiling at him for the first time. ‘Is William listening to Mycroft’s music? Is Sherlock listening to the notes?’ Her fingers danced up Sherlock’s toes to his head.  
  
‘He’s not listening Nell.’ Said Will softly. ‘He’s not listening. He is feeling.’  
  
‘It is all quite usual for a Deaf child.’ The Doctor reassured them, later, ‘they can take a little longer getting to things, because they’re not hearing, not taking it in in the same way as the rest of the world. They can catch up, quite normally and naturally – with a little bit of support,  just remember that they’re not listening to you. Not in the traditional way.’ And William’s mother stopped wanting to punch the Docstor for labeling her baby normal, when he turned to Sherlock who was sitting on his lap whilst the Doctor perched on the exam table and asked Sherlock quite seriously ‘You’ve just been waiting for them all to pay attention haven’t you?’ And scrunched his lips together as Sherlock’s hands batted towards them and as Sherlock fingers gripped a lip he blew softly – a puff of air into Sherlock’s face and Sherlock’s looked baffled and then astonished and then laughed. ‘Beautiful.’ Announced the Doctor.  
  
Back at home, full of more worries and counter worries (reassurances they’re called, apparently) and leaflets and follow up appointments and they’re explaining things to Mycroft, who seemed faintly bemused by their worrying.

‘I have been saying that for ages.’ Said Mycroft, nose in the air. ‘Sherlock never listens.’  
  
‘Oh.’ Says Mycroft’s Mother. ‘Oh love.’  
  
Sherlock’s father hummed his agreement with a raspberry against baby’s Sherlock’s round tummy, and watched as Sherlock twisted and stretched with the sounds running through his flesh and bones all the way to his toes. And let his mother catch his smiles as she tilted his head towards herself, one hand on his forehead, fingers deep into black curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Still working on this thing.   
> Does anyone know anywhere I can pick up some fanfiction challenges? Want to stretch my writing with a few prompts. Any good forums....or tumblr accounts....? Any suggestions most appreciated.   
> My googling abilities are failing me.


	10. Sherlock Sleeps

 

John did not like Irene Adler. John did not like Irene Adler one little bit. Just thinking about her made John’s mind fill with words. The kind of terrible words that people used against women. And that just made him feel like a terribly poor excuse for a man. In fact everything about Irene Adler made John feel like a poor excuse for a man. And that is why Irene Adler made John seethe.  
  
In all their encounters she never quite acknowledged John’s animosity not out loud. But John just knew that she knew, and that it somehow amused her, and that made a low terrible feeling roll through John’s gut and into his fingertips, his muscles, his fists.  
  
Irene was drawn to Sherlock; she doted on him, her body practically purring as she wound her way around him. Attracted to his cleverness in a way that rubbed John the wrong way. She called him clever and John heard different. She called him handsome and John only heard personal insults. Irene cooed over Sherlock’s deductions, in the way that love-sick teenagers do: idolising the famous, imprinting attributes that they barely understand themselves, onto people they do not know and did not understand.  
  
Irene Adler slunk into their lives on a day that started with John in a field, sent out because of some stupid system of rating cases that John had suggested as a joke but that Sherlock had apparently taken to heart. And because this case was only a 6 John was in a field, without Sherlock with a laptop balanced in one hand, whilst an increasingly confused police detective hovered around him, demanding to know why the great Sherlock Holmes himself was not there. And John offered vague reassurances and steadily rotated the laptop around the scene as a sheet-clad Sherlock peered into a webcam from the warmth of 221b Baker Street. John had no idea what Sherlock was seeing, and found himself more interested in how a field in the middle of nowhere had a better wi-fi connection than their flat.  
  
That was until the connection to Sherlock’s laptop suddenly went blank and John was being picked up by helicopter. _Helicopter_.  
  
Sat in Buckingham Palace next to a Sherlock Holmes that was only wearing a bed sheet was not quite the strangest thing John had ever done but it was vying for at least third place. Apparently wearing pyjamas around the flat was actually Sherlock dressing up.  
  
They had been summoned to Buckingham Palace because a royal person had gotten himself or _herself_ mixed up with a sex worker. Quite why Mycroft needed Sherlock to solve this puzzle for him was rather beyond John’s capabilities, especially whilst sat in Buckingham Palace, next to a 6-ft naked detective.  
  
John had found himself caught between fond amusement and quiet alarm when Sherlock had dropped his hold on his sheet as he flung his frustration at his brother. John really had seen enough of Sherlock Holmes for this lifetime, as Sherlock continued to refuse to engage with John regarding appropriate flat attire. Gathering the sheet back up around him Sherlock had stalked out the room, and made it as far as the doorway when Mycroft had stopped him by thumping the tip of his umbrella against the marble floor. Once, twice, three times. The sound reverberated across the high-ceiling room and Sherlock had stopped. Hearing aid in today. Hearing aid in but pants off. That was John’s life now.  
  
Later they had sat on solidly stuffed ornate sofas whilst Sherlock nonchalantly added sugar lumps to his tea as if he visited the Royal Household every week. Sherlock didn’t take sugar, but John watched incredulously as he added three lumps with pedantically precise movements to the ridicoulsly tiny tea cup. Christ the teaspoon should have been standing upright.  
  
‘You can stop being miffed that Emily isn’t here.’ Mycroft told Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock pursed his lips, and made a lazy motion with one hand, raising his tea cup to his mouth with the other.  
  
‘Helicopter?’ Queried Mycroft. Sherlock tipped his head to one side.  
  
‘I presume you’re wondering why I flew John here, but not Emily?’  
  
‘Yes, I was wondering that.’ Interrupted John. ‘Why you did. That.’  
  
‘Someone needed to handle you.’ Mycroft addressed to Sherlock. ‘And besides Miss Kiln is unavailable.’  
  
Mycroft seemed to place special emphasis on these words and something passed between the two brothers. Sherlock's face took on a mulish expression, but he did not mention Emily again.  
  
Although Mycroft was fluent in BSL (read adequate signer if you asked Sherlock), John was beginning to appreciate the role of an interpreter who was not also required to be in the conversation. He signed as he spoke or rather spoke as he signed, but sometimes leapt on ahead with the signing and had to back track in English slightly or vice versa, and Sherlock had his frowning face on, which always looked slightly like he was gearing up for a headache, or so John thought.  
  
Eventually Sherlock flapped a hand at Mycroft, and made a quick abortive motion with both hands, crossed and uncrossed. _Stop._ The crooked fingers of his left hand circled around his lips, and he flung a hand at himself. _Me. Lipread._  
  
Mycroft frowned but stopped signing, though his hands came up occasionally almost out of habit. Sherlock almost smiled, John fancied.  
  
Sherlock looked over the print outs from Miss Irene Adler’s website with his usual intense disinterest. Mycroft jabbed at him about sex and Sherlock answered too quickly. John’s eyes flickered back and forth, speculatively. Apart from that odd one-sided conversation they had had at the start of their relationship when Sherlock seemed to think that John was coming onto him, John had not given much thought to Sherlock and that. That being sex. There had been bodies, dead bodies that was, and evil taxi drivers, art thefts and running and laughing. And ridiculousness. And John had been preoccupied by Sarah, a Doctor from his surgery, and then a small string of slightly disappointing dates and short lived romances, and maybe a tiny bit of an obsession with Emily. So it was an odd thought for John, thinking about Sherlock being intimately involved with anyone, and it was odder that John hadn’t considered this before. Back in the army he was well aware, perhaps too aware of the exact comings (ahem) and goings of the sex lives of all his friends and colleagues. And outside of the army he always knew if someone was dating, or married, or between relationships or just over a bad break up or just looking. But with Sherlock he didn’t know any of these things. And it hadn’t occurred to him to ask, not since the restaurant.  
  
A cab took them home and John’s thoughts were interrupted by a burst of laughter when Sherlock brandished a crystal ashtray, stolen from underneath the Queen’s nose.  
  
Things went strange for a while, after that. Visiting a Dominatrix’s, posh but surprisingly normal house was not so strange. Watching Sherlock avoid looking at a very naked woman was not that strange. Not by the standards that John’s life had currently reached. It could be considered sweet Sherlock’s attempts to avoid looking. Under the right circumstances. What was strange, was that she knew sign language. Not much but enough, more than John in fact. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her but then just shook his head and then looked over to John as if for reassurance. Irene ended up wearing Sherlock’s wool coat wrapped around her as she sat in an armchair in her very clean and white and very normal house. Sherlock stared blankly at her signs, she spoke too.   
  
‘Deaf family member is it?’ Asked Sherlock. Out loud. ‘Or maybe a Deaf lover? Or a Deaf client?’ And that is the only moment that John ever saw Irene falter, just for a moment. She frowned at the sound of his voice, almost, somehow. But it was gone in a moment, just like the smiles Sherlock thinks he hides from his brother.  
  
There are Americans, a safe, John got to head-butt someone and Irene showed competent use of elbows, and Sherlock’s eyes roamed over Irene in the search for the code to the safe. Cold, calculating and John wondered, once again how he did it. Does the time tick by in your head?  
  
Things definitely go strange after Irene Adler injected Sherlock with some unknown sedative. A fucking unknown sedative. You can’t even give someone bloody cough sweets with absolute certainty that you’re not going to kill them.  
  
John found Sherlock gasping on the floor and Irene Adler escaping out a window. And he spent that evening in and out of Sherlock’s bedroom, fingers pressed against pulse point, eyes watching pupil reactions and skin colour. Sherlock stirred awake at points, his eyes sliding off John’s face and into the dark corners of the room and over to the window. He mumbled and his hands fidgeted against the bed covers, curling into shapes John can’t interpret.  
  
Around 9pm in the evening John started as he heard a thump coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, he’d pushed open the door expecting to find Sherlock sprawled across the floor like he had several hours earlier, before Sherlock had finally conceded that he needed to sleep it off.  
  
Instead he was astonished to find Irene Adler leaning over Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock’s face was mashed into the pillow and his eyes were narrow slits, staring past John and Irene both.  
  
Irene grimaced when she saw John but her lips quickly quirked up into a smile.  
  
‘John.'  
  
‘Miss Adler.'  
  
‘Oh I do believe we’re beyond such formalities, don’t you think?’  
  
John didn’t answer, and Irene allowed the silence to stretch out between them for a while. Then she cast her eyes back down at Sherlock, who had started to drool a little.  
  
‘I had hope that he’d tell me how it was done.'  
  
‘Done?’  
  
‘That little case you were working on. The man who dropped dead next to the river in Somerset.’  
  
‘What?’ John was indignant. ‘You broke into our flat, to ask a man you drugged the answer to a puzzle?’  
  
‘It was intriguing.’  
  
‘I should call the police.'  
  
‘But you won’t. Not until this one wakes up and tells you what to do.’  
  
John lips tightened into a thin line but he didn’t say anything.  
  
Irene regarded him carefully, amusement dancing over her features. She is stunningly attractive, in an odd, cruel kind of way. Just like Sherlock in his colder moments.  
  
‘Did he tell you how it was done?'  
  
John stared back  
  
‘I have tried asking but he just mumbled at me and his hands….’   
  
She gestured towards Sherlock and then leant down to stroke the fingertips of one hand down Sherlock’s arm to his fingers. Her hands looked small and delicate against the tight knots of Sherlock’s knuckles. She rested her hand against Sherlock’s, her palm pressed to the back of his for a moment. Sherlock moved, legs shifting under the sheets and his eyes opened wide, but they still stared past Irene to the gloom of the room, that gloom that always hovers between the ceiling and bed, where the lamplight doesn’t reach. John watched as Irene’s hand reached up towards Sherlock’s face, and gently tipped it towards her own. Sherlock’s eyes roved upwards, eyeballs tipped upwards, whites revealed before they slid back to Irene for a moment. He grunted, a half aborted sound from his throat, a familiar sound to John, and his left hand slithered across the bedspread. His right, his dominant arm curled up almost as if palsied, fingers curled against his shoulder, fist resting under his chin. And for a moment they both, Irene and John watched as Sherlock’s eyes reached back to Irene and rested there for a moment, and a familiar tightening of his eyes, made him seem lucid.  
  
One crooked finger reached out and brushed sloppily against his cheek. His lips moved silently as he made the sign for woman.  
  
Irene frowned and she started to speak.  
  
‘No. No. Stop. Out now. ‘ John stated, moving towards her. Suprisingly she moved willingly towards the door.  
  
‘And whilst you’re leaving you can tell me what random drug you chose to stick into him.’  
  
The drug that she rattled off, had John seething, ‘He is a fucking recovering drug addict. Are you mental? And you gave him a high dosage of a drug he might already be taking. Were you planning to kill him or just cause irreparable brain damage?’  
  
‘Recovering drug addict?’ Is all Irene asked sharply and she glanced back over her shoulder at Sherlock who was all sharp angles, and bryonic hair in the darkness of the room. Despite the fact that from the side his face is quite squidgy, John has observed. Maybe.  
  
‘Yeah. I know.’ John huffed in concession. ‘He does’n’t quite look the type.’  
  
‘No.’ Said Irene absently, ‘He looks precisely the type.’  
  
It was only after she’d left that John noticed Sherlock’s coat hanging up on the back of his door. He frowned.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely a two-parter (of sorts).   
> There may be some other people that John finds in Sherlock's bed.......!
> 
> On another note - where does one go nowadays to find some good fanfiction challenges? Google has failed me!
> 
> zx


End file.
